Fitting In
by Anti-canon
Summary: Stiles is the only human left come mating season and the best solution turns out to be an orgy. Go figure.


**A/N: More porn for everyone! I think it's slowly getting dirtier and dirtier and I don't know what to do about it because there's still twenty two squares on my card left and that's one long, filthy way to fall. O.o**

**In any case, remember that I'm accepting absolutely zero of the blame because it's much easier to pawn off responsibility to kaleidomusings since she's the one that made me that kink bingo card. :P So go send her loves, because it's all her doing.**

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It's not something they talk about. It's not really something they're proud of, or care to advertise. Most months, it's not even something they have to worry about, but when the snow starts to melt and the trees start to bloom, they all know it's coming. Pack dynamics plays a bigger role in all of their lives than they'd care to admit, but usually it's small things, things that they can grow accustomed to and explain away to others.

But the Heat—it's enough to bring them to their knees. It's one of the few forces that wolves will never to able to wrestle down, no matter the strength of their will. Like the Shift, it is merely nature's hold on their kind. Because with the spring comes the urge to mate and to claim and the animal inside is what decides what is right and what is just.

It's been three years now and through all the turmoil and upheaval, they finally have a plan for when it hits. Unlike the last seasons, when it's been a fight to keep each other from tearing others and themselves apart, there's a solid leader now, an established base and stable hierarchies. They talked about it before hand and made the arguments worth having, even if it ended up exactly where they all knew it would.

Their pack is small and even if the methods are unconventional, they're all confident that this time, they'll be effective. With Scott as Alpha, everyone was more ready for mediation, more willing to believe that such a plan was in everyone's best interest. It hurts Derek to admit it, Stiles can see that plain as day, but they work so much more cohesively beneath the true Alpha than they ever did with him. Stiles truly believes it's simply timing, that everything would have fallen into place for Derek too if they had had the time and the space to heal and to grow.

He's biased of course, what with the weirdly-solid-boyfriends thing they have going on, but even without that, he knows that Derek only ever wanted what was best for everyone, and eventually he would have gotten it right. Besides, it's not like Scott hasn't had his own problems. Ousting the twins after being unable to trust them was a hugely unpopular decision among his new pack, and for a while after—there really wasn't one.

Then Jackson came back and found himself reluctant to submit to Scott's authority, all the while enjoying the benefits of his territory. That was a hard time for Stiles too—having to witness and admit that there was a peculiar kind of bond between bitten wolves and the ones who turned them. He had to adjust to having Jackson be a permanent fixture in his and Derek's lives, and he had to come to terms with the fact that though he wouldn't get Derek in the way Stiles did, he was going to get a lot of things that no one else did either.

He wasn't good at it at first. There were many nights Stiles spent in his old room, beneath his father's concerned attentions, unsure that he was cut out for loving a wolf, and all those complications that came with. He'd raged about the fact that Isaac never pushed for such intimacy, even when he knew it was because the other boy got it from Scott instead of Derek. And even though it wasn't entirely unfounded, it also wasn't entirely fair, when he accused Derek of cheating—seeing images of the two of them together on _their _sheets behind his eyes, while he was fitfully sleeping miles away.

Things were never really peachy between him and Jackson, but eventually the dust settled, and in the end Derek still loved Stiles the way he never had another person, and Stiles maybe loved him just a little bit back. Jackson was over more days than not, and had a habit of trailing hands along Derek's waist, of resting his head on Derek's shoulder, of staying into the night and having breakfast in his boxers the morning after. It wasn't perfect, but it worked, and Stiles was almost glad of it when Cora announced that she'd be leaving, at least for a little while.

After finishing high school with the rest of them, she found herself a college near a pack that had housed her before—a while after the fire. It wasn't right to tell her not to go, and so none of them did. She called every few days and Skyped on the weekends, but it left Derek aching, and having Jackson around turned out to help. For that, Stiles thanked him, and for that he decided to make it work. Allison, Lydia, and Danny left out too. Not beholden to pack, but not saying they weren't coming back, it was hard to make an issue over all of them staying. It wasn't a life they had asked for, and it wasn't one they had to accept, and so for a little while, they left it behind.

Stiles found himself to be the only human left in their ragtag group, and most days he didn't even notice. After a while, none of it seemed that foreign, and he even started to pick up on little mannerisms that separated him out from his study group friends. It would occasionally get lonely and sucked ass when he was trying to get his way in group meetings. No one else really got his perspective and without others to back him up, he often lost out. The others tried to compensate by giving him more sway, but in the end, as he'd already said, it was all too easy to forget what wasn't human.

In the end, it's what led to this situation though, and what's left Derek sitting silent across from him tonight—face pale, dinner untouched, eyes bruised. Neither of them knows what to say, already agreed to what's going to happen, and now it's just the wait. The wait that Stiles is convinced will be worse than the actual acts that are going to go down when the moon rises. Derek's martyr complex isn't exactly helping anything out, and though their relationship is a large and undeniable factor in the decision that had to be made, Stiles isn't going to let him make it a bad thing.

He grabs at Derek's hand and entwines their fingers, giving him a strong smile, and about to make a speech that he's been practicing in his head for the last hour and a half, when the knock comes at the door. They both freeze in place, eyes locked onto one another, and Stiles can hear himself swallow as Derek's grip tightens beyond painful. The knock comes again, and with a wince, Derek lets go and stands up, pushing his chair away.

He hesitates for a moment, leaning forward to place a kiss to Stiles' forehead, setting his napkin on the table, and walking to the door. Jackson's waiting, with concerned eyebrows and a familiar touch to Derek's chest. It makes Stiles squirm in his seat and he tries not to be upset that neither of them look back before they leave.

Stiles gets there just as the clouds break overhead and he can see the moon, wide and full and damning. He's a little late, but he doesn't much care, and he has to take another few moments to gather himself—keep from panicking. If he can't pull it together, it's all for nothing, and it's been hard enough on all of them that he has to try, that he had to make it all worth the trouble.

The door is loud and creaks on its pulleys as he slides it open, stepping into the dark of the warehouse. This building is just on the edge of the city limits, down by the bay, and it's where they house Allison's spare weapons, Stiles' books and herbs, the pack's restraints, and it's where they hold all their meetings. It's secluded and relatively hidden and large enough to run training exercises and bonding sessions. Mostly it's just room for "expansion" as they all thought the pack would get bigger—not dwindle into obscurity—but it suits their purposes well, and for this, it's perfect.

There's a walled off room in the corner, meant perhaps to be the overseers office, but right now just cages the more dangerous things they like to keep behind mountain ash. Beside that, they've set up a small carpeted area, with a big screen, a couch, and several arm chairs. Scott is standing in front of the television, leaned against the entertainment center, eyes glowing red. His ears are pointed and his jaw is furred and his teeth are out, and he holds himself… regally. In front of him, Isaac is laying on his back, shirt pulled up to bare his stomach, and his golden eyes are half-lidded, drugged out.

Stiles only pays them mind for half a second, because sat in the armchair to the left is Derek, arms and back rigid against the frame, feet firmly on the ground and legs spread. His jaw is set and he's looking straight ahead. Curled up on his lap, Jackson's bright blue eyes match his in intensity, but he's staring at Derek like he's something reverent. Stiles can't help the way his stomach roils as he watches Jackson brush his teeth along the lobe of Derek's ear, brush his claw along the inseam of Derek's jeans.

He tries to keep himself under wraps as he approaches Scott, sheds his coat, and kneels, baring his throat instead of looking at the ground. Scott's eyes flick to him disinterestedly for a moment, but when they catch the exposed skin, he rushes forward—hot breath coming from an open mouth in great whuffs. A low growl comes from the left and Stiles knows it's Derek, but Stiles doesn't dare turn to look fully at him, bile rising in his throat as Scott continues to scent long after his curiosity should have been sated.

Stiles had done as they had asked—washed his skin and clothes with unscented soap, been careful not to come too close to anyone throughout the day. He was part of Scott's pack and he was human, which meant he was low enough to consider property. Being mated with Derek didn't matter much when they were more in touch with their human sides, but on nights such as this one, it was practically a crime. All eligible mates, especially one as strong and young and virile and Stiles should be presented to the Alpha first—not hoarded by a second-in-command that could be seen as competition, having had power once himself.

Stiles had thought that he had been so careful, that all the necessary steps had been taken to the letter, but as Scott gets more anxious, more forceful, he remembers that he'd also had sex with Derek in that shower—filled with desperation and need. He'd thought it would be okay, that he'd taken care of it—he was going to clean up afterwards anyway— but as Scott drifts lower and lower, circles back behind him, Stiles can feel his heart rate spike.

Isaac is wriggling uncomfortably beside him and Stiles can see the burgeoning erection in the front of his pants as his features start to change. Derek's growls grow louder and Jackson starts to whine at him, pawing at his chest and placing small kitten-licks to the side of his face. Scott pauses to snap at the both of them, barking short and loud from deep in his chest. Derek's growling doesn't stop, but he sits further back and folds his hands in his lap.

Stiles closes his eyes and tries to breathe slowly as he feels Scott nosing at his lower back, skin touching skin in the gap between his shirt and his jeans. He knows what's coming, but wishes it wasn't all the same, as Scott makes a disapproving noise and digs his nose right into Stiles' ass, pushing at the split of his jeans and rubbing down into the area near his taint. Then the growling begins in earnest as Scott shoves Stiles forward, forcing him to brace himself with his arms and arch his back, assuming a mounting position. Derek snarls at that, but Scott just continues to sniff before using his free hand to rip at the threads in Stiles' jeans.

Stiles can feel his face heat and his stomach drop as the clothing parts and he's exposed to the cool air—the denim and cotton splitting beneath Scott's claw with criminal ease. Those claws prick as they dig into the soft flesh of Stiles' cheeks to part him wider, his balls falling free and giving Scott the space for one last, conformational inhale, before rising up and pressing the whole long line of his body down against Stiles. Derek jumps in his chair, teeth gnashing and eyes sparking, but Jackson holds him down and Isaac springs to Scott's side, winding against him.

Jackson offers up his throat, grinds down into Derek's lap—going so far as to shed his pants (absolutely no sign of underwear Stiles notes bitterly) and press his leaking cock against the underside of Derek's wrist. It's enough to make the beta go cross eyed and curl around his charge and Stiles tells himself that it's a good thing, really. Scott pushes harder on the curve of his hip and Stiles bends, animal in position, and tries not to yelp when his head gets pulled back by his hair.

Scott mouths just behind his ear—hot and wet and smelling something like fresh dirt. His claws scrape against Stiles' scalp and Stiles shudders at how possessive it is. Even though he's a little ashamed to admit it, it turns him on, and he can feel his dick twitch at the notion of being _taken. _He's had sex like this with Derek before, licking at the pointed tips of his ears, tugging at the fur along his face, sucking on fangs and clenching around a knot. It had been… intimate, and Stiles remembers lying there for an eternity afterwards, tied together, smelling of sweat and cum, and feeling so content.

It makes his eyes close and his lips tremble as Scott rips away his own clothing, pressing against his entrance, dry and uncaring. That's what had gotten him in trouble this morning. They'd told him to stretch himself out, warned him that they wouldn't have it in them to care. He'd gotten too caught up in it, invited Derek in, thought to himself, what could get him looser than the real thing? Now Scott's pushing inside him—hot and hard and crooked, and their sensitive skin drags against each other in a way that's not quite pain nor pleasure.

Scott growls triumphantly and bites on the back of Stiles' neck as soon as he bottoms out, wiry, unkempt pubes scratching at Stiles ass as their balls bump and slide against another. Stiles tries to stay pliant, not resisting as Scott bares down on him in several different joints, making his claim known. Stiles is his pack, his human, _his. _Isaac whines and bounds in front of them, laying on his back again and then inching back and back until he's between Stiles' braced fists, teeth scratching at his clothed thighs.

Stiles quivers at the extra attention, tries not to be affronted when the fangs snag and tear at the denim. Not like he was gonna be able to keep a pair of jeans with their very own glory hole anyways, but still. He freezes completely when Isaac scoots even further back, hips thrusting weakly at the air as he raises his head and fucking _licks _at where Stiles and Scott are joined. He feels his balls resting against Isaac's chin as the beta licks along his rim and at Scott's thick base—almost purring in delight.

It's enough, apparently, to spur Scott into action, and he rises over Stiles, caging his fists with his claws, and then pistoning into him—relentlessly and without rhythm. He curls around Stiles, yipping and growling and he pounds sloppily around, their balls slapping loudly as Stiles grits his teeth and Isaac fucks happily into the air, feeding off the energy. Scott starts letting out cut-off howls as Stiles feels him swell around his base, his channel getting slicker and slicker as Scott squirts more and more precum inside.

Derek's attention catches again and he finally manages to catch Jackson off guard—tossing him to the ground and shoving Isaac roughly away as he comes to Stiles' side. He doesn't try to interfere, but shifts restlessly and whines, butting his head against Stiles' shoulder and licking at his cheek. Scott snaps at him and bares his teeth, but Derek isn't the least bit deterred, whining higher as he bends down to sniff and lick at them the same way Isaac did, only entirely different.

Stiles wishes he could reach out to comfort him, but knows that showing affectations against Scott would only make things worse. Instead he does what he can to hurry it along, clenching at Scott's length, bringing one of his hands up to scratch carefully at his exposed belly, licking at Scott's mouth until the Alpha is claiming him with his tongue as well. Scott's knot forms quickly and surges at Stiles' entrance, insistent. This isn't sex, this isn't even fucking. Stiles is being _bred _and though it makes him shudder, when Derek whispers in his ear about a belly full of pups, pinching at his nipples and stopping him up as he comes, this is different.

Derek's yelping now, nipping at Stiles' thighs and pressing his bulk as far into the open space as he can, desperate, while Isaac and Jackson tussle on the edge, half fight and half foreplay as Scott continues to plow right on, knowing that this is his right and his duty. Stiles can feel when it's time, when Scott's muscles begin to tense and his strokes become jabs, and his knot is being ushered up inside. "Scott—Scott, please."

Stiles' voice breaks as he pleads and it must be enough, because Scott is stopping just enough to pull out, rip at Stiles' clothes, and come all over his back and in his ass and on his hair. It's not like being knotted, where they would be stuck together for an interminable amount of time afterwards, as Scott releases pulse after pulse of semen inside him, and the swell holds firm to keep it in, but it was close and so it's still a good two dozen hot, wet, loaded shots spattering across his skin, sticking in his hair, pooling in his lower back, seeping down his crack and along his balls.

Scott flattens himself against Stiles before it can cool, rubs it between them and bites at Stiles' shoulders as he makes sure that it overrides the scent he caught earlier. His half-soft cock wedges between Stiles ass, and he's pretty sure he feels a small trickle of urine sluice through it all, but then the Alpha backs away, retreating to the head of the room to lick at himself, eyes foggy and sated.

Stiles sags in relief once it's over, letting his weight crush against Derek, still beneath him. Isaac tentatively crawls over, sniffing at him and licking at him, though Stiles knows now it's because of Scott. He, personally, has never really been into the whole sloppy seconds deal, but Isaac moves instantly from causal onlooker, shredding his clothes and hopping right atop Stiles—not bothering to go for a mating—just eager to barrel into his Alpha's leavings, hard cock sliding around Stiles' back as he pants and humps like a rabbit.

Derek roars and moves to knock him off, but Scott growls and barks from where he's still patiently cleaning himself—an unhurried warning, but a threat all the same. Isaac continues to bury his face in the ejaculate, sniffing and licking and insinuating himself into the process, dick staying decidedly humanoid even as he starts getting erratic and frustrated. His legs scrabble along the back of Stiles' trying to find purchase so he can increase the friction. His bony hips snap violently as he folds himself almost in half, howling as he comes—hitting himself in the chest and chin and then gathering that up to mix with Scott's.

Stiles feels well and truly used, but not as bruised or broken as he was expecting. Instead he's just… tender and raw and with a shaky breath, he lets it all go. He presses into Derek, smiling as he noses along his jaw, giving apologetic almost-kisses, and reaches up to peel away the tattered and stained clothing. He's naked now, but feels considerably less exposed, and eagerly follows Derek's nudges as he ushers Stiles away from the massive wet spot beneath them.

Jackson follows them over, eyes big and maybe a little sad, but Derek ignores him, gently cleaning each and every inch of Stiles' body with broad swipes of his tongue and harsh, but careful self-assuring bites. Eventually the other beta follows suit, and though Stiles is a little wary, and even Derek doesn't seem all too pleased, they clean him together, moving in a surprisingly graceful tandem.

Stiles is no less tacky, but maybe a little less pungent afterwards and he's not at all hesitant to grab Derek's face and kiss him sloppily and open mouthed—tongue curling around his teeth and chasing the musk further and further down. Derek lays him down, oh-so-gently, and surrounds him, boxing him in and closing everything else out. They kiss and kiss and Stiles can feel Derek pressing against his entrance, but not allowing any pressure.

Jackson whines alongside them, pushing at Derek's sides, trying to squeeze beneath his arms, and eventually rising to try and mount him, but he is pushed away with harsher and harsher means. He's pacing the floor and practically crying and Stiles can see how tense it's making Derek, even though he isn't giving an inch. He didn't really want it to go down like this, knows that it's not how they discussed it, but he knows that something has to happen, and the idea of Derek going to him afterwards, of just the two of them lying together while he's asleep—

Stiles ushers Derek away, gently and with soothing brushes to his flanks, but gets up and walks over to Jackson, stopping in front of him. Jackson shies away at first, looking between his legs at Derek, but Derek is just as lost, keeping careful eye and creeping close and closer. Stiles takes Jackson's chin in one hand, smoothing a thumb over his cheekbone, before leaning forward and kissing him as he would Derek—open and trusting and caring. Jackson freezes against it for a long while, but slowly, carefully starts coming to life beneath the attention, making soft, pained little noises.

Derek rumbles again, low and from his chest, but this is approving—Stiles imagines it almost as the werewolf equivalent of a whispered, 'oh, baby'—and stalks towards them. Stiles lowers himself to his knees and pushes Jackson down onto his ass, crawling over and straddling him as their kiss deepens. Jackson growls happily and nips at his lips, almost playful—Derek tracing a hand along his ribs while his back presses against Stiles'.

Even though it would go along much more smoothly for both of them if Stiles topped—at least when they were more aware of their faculties— he knows that tonight, within an archaic sense of hierarchy, he has no claim to that, and so he lowers himself over Jackson instead, grabbing the base of his cock to line them up, and then sinking down and down onto him. It's easy now—he's so slick and loose and _used. _Jackson squirms beneath him and it takes Derek's strength to hold his hips down from where they're trying to jack-rabbit-fuck.

Stiles moves slowly up and down him as he turns his head to catch Derek's mouth in a biting, fierce kiss—letting him know that he made this choice, that he isn't made subject to their whims always. It should get him in more trouble, assuming control and dominance in a way, but Derek just grins into it, almost-barking, and rubbing up against Stiles while twining fingers with Jackson. The simple giddiness doesn't last long, like he knew it wouldn't, as Jackson starts to get wet, starts swelling and rutting.

It sets Derek on edge again, reminding him that what's his is being taken by yet another, and his grip grows cruel along Stiles' hip. But he'd been anticipating this, and only prays that he knows what he's doing as he shushes Derek—using one hand to reluctantly pull him into another kiss while the other reaches behind him, tugging at the uncut length along his back and guiding it down, down—

Derek pulls back in surprise as Stiles starts nudging his purpling head alongside Jackson's half-formed knot, letting it catch and pull at the ring of muscles there. Stiles just continues to encourage him, pulling at the back of his neck to guide his face into Stiles' throat and along his collar bone, rolling his hips, and tugging harder on his cock. He doesn't think Derek's going to allow it for a while, but then his mate curls over him, much as Scott did before, arms bracketing him in, chest pressing him down, hips and thighs subjugating him, forcing him into the position.

Jackson's dick slips out and inch or two as he collapses his hips, offers himself up, begs—just this once—to be made a true and proper bitch, and Derek takes it. With a rising and a surge, he forces himself in next to Jackson and Stiles yells as he feels himself being wrenched open. It doesn't hurt, at least not in a way that he doesn't consider sensual, but he still feels like he's being split, like he's going to burst at the seams beneath them.

Once Derek's in and moving, Jackson is unable to hold himself back and the two of them fuck into Stiles with abandon, slipping out, sliding against his thighs, his stomach, his back, the creases of his hips, and back in again—spreading him open and stopping him up. Derek growls and bites and begins to swell inside him as Jackson sits himself up and leans over Stiles' shoulder to bite at his first Alpha's shoulders, wrapping a hand around to knead at his ass as it works Stiles over between them. Stiles finds himself biting at Jackson for that, throwing the rules out the window and laying his own claim, feeling the animal, even if he isn't it.

Derek revels in that, in the both of them gunning for him, and redoubles his efforts, sweat drenching the three of them, obscene sounds reverberating off the walls, the overwhelming stench of their musk getting so thick they can taste it. Stiles braces himself with one hand and uses the other to attack at Jackson, scratching his thighs and pulling at his balls as the beta whines and swells and squirts in response. Without thinking, without caring, Stiles fingers him, deep and dry and mean and Jackson snarls, writhes, and knots him.

Derek howls, claws tearing three parallel lines across Stiles chest—shallow but bleeding—as he follows suit. Stiles thinks he's going to blackout at the sheer intensity of it—the mountain of sensation hitting him over the head, dense as a pile of bricks—and comes, ass clenching, cock spurting, muscles seizing. He collapses, like a puppet with cut strings, between the two blue-eyed betas and tries not to cry as they both rush to hold him to their chests, still painting his insides with searing hot semen. He swears to god he can feel their cocks jerking up into his throat, their combined ejaculates swelling his belly, their twin knots fusing to his opening.

He has been claimed. He is theirs. He is pack.

There will be much to say in the morning, but for the moment, that's all that matters.

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**P.S. Blaming kaleidomusings for the title while I'm at it. It's punny, see- FIT IN *nudge, nudge* *wink, wink*- get it? DP? Anyways! It's all her fault because she always encourages me when I make dirty terrible puns and she really, really shouldn't :P**


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